


Got the Horns

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [14]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, The Barns, Tumblr Prompt, tagging is so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: “I died.”“Only briefly.”“But Idied.”





	Got the Horns

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon on Tumblr: "Omg i just saw this tumblr post: cliché but classic trope: when the person who almost died wakes up in a hospital bed, looks around and sees the object of their affection sleeping uncomfortably in the chair next to them because they haven’t moved in days. And tbh would love to see it with pynch!!"

Ronan doesn’t have a single fucking clue what happened. 

One second he’s in a field at The Barns.

Next second, he’s in a bed, very stiff, very woozy,  _ very  _ much high.

He doesn't remember taking drugs, though. Also, Kavinsky is  _ long  _ gone. So. Not really his scene anymore.

What happened?

There are people, or people-like shapes, crowding and talking in echoes that don’t make sense. And then he blinks, and it’s dark out, and a person-shaped thing is on the couch, maybe snoring? Hard to tell since everything is ringing and blurring and aches. Blinks again, and he’s alone, and dear fucking  _ god  _ in  _ heaven  _ everything is painful as  _ fuck.  _ He’s moaning, trying to move to make it hurt less, but that makes it hurt  _ more _ , and then someone is holding his hand, holding down his arms, legs, saying something. English? Latin? Maybe tree? God who the fuck knows. His body is screaming, _he_ might be screaming, it hurts it hurts it motherfucking  _hurts._ ..until suddenly, it doesn’t. 

And then it’s dark again.

  
  


#####

  
  


Ronan blinks awake. Truly awake, this time. He can't feel much, but he  _can_ feel that he's conscious. Which is weird. Because he doesn't remember falling asleep.  

His hand itches. something is tugging at the skin. 

Strips of fluorescents blur and refocus with every heavy blink. But last he checked, he was outside, wandering around the fields of The Barns. Where ugly-ass fluorescent lights do not exist.

His hand is really itchy. And whatever is tugging at his skin needs to cut it the fuck out--

Oh. It’s an IV.

He stares at the tubes in his hand for a long time, And as he drops his hand back onto the bed, he realizes it’s a bed with rails, and cheap, boring bed sheets, and an itchy blanket the same color as mold.  And he’s in a beige room that smells like hand sanitizer and intentionally unscented cleaning products and death.

Ah. Hospital. He’s in the hospital.

That's...not good. Might explain why he can't remember anything. 

He fucking  _ hates  _ hospitals.

He shifts, tests his fingers and toes and hands and feet, to see what will move and what won’t. Everything moves, albeit stiffly and painfully. 

He turns his head, waits for his vision to stop swimming.

Adam sleeps curled in the corner of the couch, taking up as little space as his lanky, wiry body is able. The knot of his tie has been yanked down, the collar of his dress shirt unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even in sleep, mouth parted slightly, worried lines wrinkle his forehead. Dark bags line his eyes.

He looks like shit.

Ronan would like to tell him that.

But when he opens his mouth, his throat is too dry. He only manages a cracking wheeze

Adam startles and nearly falls off the couch. There’s a moment of terror and humiliation; he clearly hadn’t meant to fall asleep and  _ shit  _ who saw him? Ronan waves a hand--or, more accurately, twitches his fingers--in his direction.

Adam exhales like he’d been holding his breath for 45 years, deflating entirely, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Lynch,” he says, but Ronan can hear the swell of affection and relief in his name.

Ronan clears his throat. “Parrish,” he manages.

Adam hands him the cup of water on the table.

Lukewarm water has  _ never  _ tasted so sweet.

“The fuck happened?” Ronan rasps.

Adam snorts, and it’s almost a laugh. “I was hopin you’d be able to tell me.”

Henrietta taints his words. He only does the drawl when he’s trying to turn Ronan on, or when he’s so wrung out he doesn’t have the energy left to consciously mask it. Given the circumstances, it’s probably the latter.

“I don’t remember. Honestly,” Ronan says. Thinking too hard hurts his head. “I...last I remember, I wanted to check in on the dairy cows. And so I was going to cut through the field to do that...and…”

Oh. The field.

“The bull was out.” Ronan slams his head back into the pillows. “ _ Shit.  _ Fuck me. I forgot the bull was out. It charged me, didn’t it?”

Adam shrugs. “Your guess is better than mine.”

_ Now  _ he remembers. Being thrown. Slammed into the ground. Crushed against a fence post. Manure and dirt and cow smell. Hot, sticky breath and pulsing muscles. Screaming for someone,  _ anyone.  _ Managing to punch it’s nose, land a few kicks, scramble over the fence and fall to the ground.

A farmhand running towards him. Ambulance sirens.

Then nothing.

“What’s the fucking damage?”

“Three broken ribs, two fractured. Tissue damage to your hip, but thankfully not broken. Fractured wrist. Scalp laceration, which led to severe blood loss, which is why your,” Adam swallowed, coughed, “heart stopped. And, you know, bruising, scrapes, all of that.”

“Wait. My  _ what _ stopped?”

“Your heart. You died.”

“I died?”

“Yes.”

“I died.”

“Only briefly.”

“But I  _ died. _ ”

“For ten seconds. Apparently. I was on a plane, coming here. But that’s what Calla told me.”

“Calla.”

“I asked her to check in on you, on a hunch. They got there when the farmhand found you.”

“Huh.”

Once upon a time, being numb to death was an unfortunate side-effect of his destructive depressive tendencies. Now, it’s because he’s too drugged to feel his ribs, or hip, or head, or face, or feelings.

“Matty?” he asks, the tiniest of hiccups of anxiety managing to bubble past the thick wall of morphine.

“Fine. He was taking a nap when it happened. He didn’t really feel anything.”

“Opal?”

“In Cabeswater II, so probably fine.”

“Chainsaw?”

“Grumpy, but seems okay.”

Ronan closes his eyes, lets the delightful numbness swallow him up again. “Good.”

A nurse comes in, checks his vitals and adjusts his fluid drip, chats sweetly with Adam while Ronan offers only grunts in return. “We’ll have to get the doctor in here now that you’re awake,” they say, “only be a few minutes, alright?”

Adam nods his thanks.  

“I have one more question,” Ronan says once the nurse leaves. He’s starting to slur his words. Pain meds and exhaustion claw at his consciousness, trying to drag him back under. “How fucked up is my face right now?”

Adam smiles. “Not too hideous. Only marginally worse than normal.”

“Shithead.”

“Asshole.”

Calla, who’d gone in the ambulance with Ronan, had sent Adam a photo for when he got off the plane: Ronan, on a stretcher, neck in one of those stabilizing braces, bandages wrapped around the crown of his head, IVs strung along his bruised and bloodied arm, and giving a  _ goddamn thumbs-up _ .

“Hardcore,” Ronan says when Adam shows him. Adam rolls his eyes.

The nurse comes back, followed by the doctor. They check Ronan’s numbers, have him move fingers and toes and the like, answer a few cognitive questions just to make sure his brain is okay.

Adam stays on the couch while they talk to him about next steps, elbows braced on his knees as he chews on his fingernail.

“Shitty habit,” Ronan croaks once the doctor and nurse leave.

Adam shoots him a look. “Nearly dying every 3 years is a shittier one.”

Ronan hums. Can’t argue with that.

Adam moves to the rolling stool beside the bed. He takes Ronan’s hand in his, tracing the lines of Ronan’s palm with trembling fingers. He takes a few deep breaths. Ronan’s eyes are heavy and he can feel sleep pulling him back under when Adam whispers, “you scared the shit of me.”

That gets Ronan’s attention. He blinks himself awake.

“I know--I know this wasn’t your fault. You didn’t. You wouldn’t have gone into the field on purpose, but. Jesus, Ronan. I…”

He shakes his head, brings Ronan’s hand to his lips.

“Your heart stopped. I mean.  _ Christ. _ ”

Ronan strokes Adam’s cheek with a finger. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Adam finally looks at him, eyes watery, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. He sniffs, “And,  _ God _ , I had to talk to Declan.  _ By myself.  _ For two days!”

Ronan chuckles. “I’m a fucking asshole.”

“You really are.”

Adam holds Ronan’s hand to his cheek. “This is the third time I’ve had to deal with you dying. Please do not do this anymore.”

“Technically,” Ronan slurs, “this is the first time I’ve actually  _ died _ , so.”

“Not interested in seeing that happen again.”

Ronan kisses Adam’s fingers. “I am sorry. Honestly. For this,’ he murmurs.

“It was an accident, it’s fi--”

“Shhh, look, I fucking know,” Ronan says, flopping his finger against Adam’s lips. “Just. I’m sorry, anyways. I’m gonna try not to die again.”

Adam laughs, takes Ronan’s hand in his again. “Glad to hear it.” He kisses his forehead. “Rest up. The sooner you can get out of bed, the sooner we can wheelchair race.”

“That’s some damn good motivation.”

“Oh, I know.”

He can’t keep his eyes open much longer; they’re too heavy. So he looks at Adam once more, squeezes his hand, enjoys how it softens Adam’s expression and smooths some of the lines between his forehead.

“I love you,” he mumbles. Exhaustion is finally winning. His eyes closed, his body relaxes, he’s almost there, almost asleep in a matter of seconds, when he hears Adam say, “I love you, too,” and that, alone, makes still being alive worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts: this was inspired by one of my fiance's fraternity brothers, who was charged by a bull while herding dairy cows, broke a bunch of stuff, died for a few seconds, and lived to tell the tale.


End file.
